I was on the run. Constantine was losing weight the more I ran, the longer I was a fugitive. I visited his home from time to time. He wasn’t losing weight like the cows in Pharoah’s dream. He was coming into a fit and healthy weight. I met his wife. His house was a mansion.
I escaped and woke up in an abyss. Lucille found me and took me to her apartment. A KFC sat on the crag opposite her ghetto apartment. A clan of bong-smokers and playstation afficionados came and went constantly. It was difficult to say who lived there. It was a scene from the Projects.
I entered a school competition. It was both a poetry and an indoor cricket competition (somehow the two were one). My friend, the big M, a chief in her own right, wanted to break into my rival’s locker. Jesse James was the favourite and she wanted to steal a look at his poem. She broke into it but I declined a look. I had to win fair and square. Sure enough, right after she had restored security to his locker, Jesse James turned up and he was in that happy, slapstick humour he was always in. His devil-may-care attitude only helped him succeed at those games I had to work hard at. He took his poem and headed off to the game. I saw the editor-in-chief coming down the hallway and told him with enthusiasm, I would score a run for every delivery. He smiled patiently and I protested his disbelief. He replied, “well, that’s what boys will say.”
Jesse James won the tournament. His poem was excellent. I tried to commit it to memory but the words turned into white noise – time to wake up…